Good Morning
by Witknee
Summary: The aftermath of the S5 premier. Not as happy as the title suggests. Tony, Michelle, Jack.


Good Morning 

This is my first 24 fic, I got really bummed about the premier… and since I was bummed, I KNEW Tony had to be bummed. So, this is it. Hope you guys like it.  
Disclaimer: Not mine, nothing ever is.  
Rating: T, I guess. Some unsettling images.. Or something. Just saying T to be safe.

The dryness of his throat was the first thing he noticed as he opened his heavy, drug laden eyes. He groaned, licked his lips and started to test his body. What hurt, what didn't. What parts of him were burnt, what parts weren't.  
The day's events seemed scattered, and his head hurt from exertion. He didn't remember much. He brought his hand to his face and gingerly scratched his cheek in a very regular, comfortable manner. The order of that morning's events slowly trickled into his head.

The alarm had gone off at 5:30- he hated setting it, it was too damn complicated to program- but he hated the sound of it even more. It woke him with little preamble and he started awake, made him groan. On the contrary his wife, always a morning person, barely even batted an eye at the sound. She stopped to smile at him, peck him on the cheek, and then as he put his face down in the pillow with a sigh, he had heard the beginnings of her soft footsteps on the carpet, as she headed towards the bathroom. It was then that he looked up at her, opened his eyes, watched her as her hips swayed with every step she took. She had felt his eyes upon her, looked back at him with a small, flirtatious smile on her graceful features, and then began to walk again… her hips swaying with a barely noticeable further exaggeration. The door closed lightly and he heard the soft patter of water hitting tile as she started the shower.  
He'd been awake then, and with a wolfish smile he opened the door, saw her through the clear and slightly blurred glass of the large walk in shower. She'd looked up from her ministrations then, her hands tangled in her long, curly hair that he himself loved to run his fingers through. He watched the recognition flicker in her eyes, saw the grin on her face appear and then widen. Heard her laugh when he'd haphazardly stripped and thrown his clothes anywhere they would go. Saw her shiver when he slid the door open and had exposed her to the cool air outside. Heard her sigh when he had covered his body with hers to "retain the heat". Felt her moan when he had sealed his lips over hers. Felt himself utter words of adoration and feeble descriptions of her beauty… words that would never do her justice.  
They spent an hour there, laughing and enjoying each other's company. Making love had never seemed so natural, he had never seen her so unrestrained, so…free.  
It was as they were getting dressed that he noticed the way that her fingers played over her abdomen, how she gingerly buttoned her pants, almost as if she were afraid to hurt herself.  
Or the person that was growing inside herself.  
She whispered the clichéd phrase to him softly when he'd looked at her questioningly, with only slight hesitation in her voice. Without breath, he had kissed her then, their lips pressing against each other softly, with devotion. With awe.  
They walked out of the bathroom, hand in hand, smiles on their face. Without a glance, they parted, going about their regular morning routine. She went to fix her hair before it turned unmanageable and her went to fix breakfast. He turned the coffee pot on, poured some in his favorite mug whenever it was ready and sat down at the kitchen counter where the television sat. He turned it on, CNN immediately reporting the news that had already taken the nation by storm. He blinked a couple of times. Once. Twice. The announcer's voice flooded his ears and he struggled to make sense of the situation. He wasn't sure when exactly he'd started calling her name, but she came. The urgency in his voice made her eyes go wide and she nearly sprinted into the room. He felt her move behind him, standing as he sat. Without words, he rooted for her hand and took it in his, intertwining their fingers. A few minutes had passed. He heard her sniffle, felt a few tears hit his shoulder. It was then that he turned around and took her into his lap. She sat and closed her eyes, let him run his hands over her still untamed locks, kiss her forehead. She let out an audible, shaky sigh, brushed his cheek with her own.  
She only let him comfort her in this way for a few moments before her eyes opened, the tears stopped and she went for the phone.  
He'd been the one to close his eyes then, got up, put his hand gently around her wrist. He whispered her name, and she looked at him. Steely gaze met steely gaze. He'd removed his hand then, but he hadn't moved from his spot. He looked a her intently as she dialed the familiar number to CTU, heard the ringing of the telephone against the quiet backdrop of their white kitchen. He took the phone, told her that it wasn't their job anymore, that it wasn't any of their business. They'd argued- over something stupid. She wanted to help, he didn't. He was scared for them, for her. And he let it show in his voice, in his actions.  
She was scared for them, for her. She didn't let it show in her voice or in her actions. She spoke softly then, put her hand on his arm and looked intently into his eyes. It was then that she moved for the bedroom, went to pick up her coat.  
He'd called after her, reminded her of their business in a last ditch effort to keep her from doing something that quite honestly scared the shit out of him. They ended up at the door, and he asked her once again to stop, a pleading tone in his voice. She's looked at him for a moment, lovingly, longingly… and kissed him reverently on the cheek by way of goodbye.  
He was frustrated, got on the phone, had started to leave a message for Rick about why SHE couldn't make the meeting, SHE had better things to do. It was then that he had realized that if she had things to do, then he did also. Anywhere that she was to go, he was to go. Anything she felt driven to do, he felt driven to do also. The words slipped out, he was going with her, he couldn't make the meeting…  
The car made the sound signifying that it was unlocked, the door clicked open… the starter…  
The blast had hurt, had sent him to the floor, the phone sailing out of his hand. The glass underneath him scraped through the shirt he wore, tore away at his skin. He shook him head, trying to focus. He saw her face in his head and his eyes widened.  
Michelle. Michelle. Michelle.  
He ran. He ran as fast as he had ever run, saw the blaze where her car had been not a minute earlier. Where she had been…  
He screamed her name, as loud as he could, put his hand up to deter the glare and fumes from the flames… She couldn't have been in the car…  
Please, God, don't let her be in the car!  
He'd seen her then, laying underneath metal, lifeless. He ran to her, crouched over her, smoothed her hair out of her face.  
There was blood.  
'Too much blood…' he remembered himself thinking. The heat from the flames had been intense, almost unbearable…  
He'd felt for a pulse…  
Couldn't find one.  
And suddenly the flames had been bearable. He'd clutched her to his chest, and he'd never felt tears come on so quickly in his life. They already started scorching down his face, red hot and angry, saddened, remorseful, futile, trying to wash away the already overwhelming grief he felt coursing through his veins. She was dead. His body screamed with rejection and denial at the thought, at the fact.  
He'd rocked her lifeless body back and forth, felt sobs wrack his body, and then, as he vaguely heard a burst of sound behind him, had felt the flames burn and lick his flesh away.  
He didn't even remember screaming when they'd hit him, just remembered crying like he never had before

This knowledge, this circumstance eluded him. He felt sadness, felt a weight upon him, like there was something that had happened to him, to someone… but he couldn't quite put his finger on it himself.  
He heard, rather than saw someone walk into the room. His head shot up, immediately thinking of his wife, immediately going over all of the ways that she was going to scold him for "scaring the hell out of her.. Again". He whispered her name, searched in the shadows of the room for her.  
Jack stepped out of the shadows, his head bowed, body structure tense and unsure. Tony's brow furrowed in confusion and he looked at him for a while, contemplating.  
Where was his wife?  
He addressed Jack with this question, with this issue. Jack eyes and head lifted. He saw tears in Jack Bauer's eyes. It was never a good thing to see tears in Jack Bauer's eyes. He'd felt the tightness in his throat then, the ball of grief waiting to be released. He asked the question again, this time his voice small and slightly obscured by the tightness he felt in his throat.  
And suddenly, Jack's hand had been on his shoulder… and the morning's events had come flooding back, no longer blocked and hammered down deep inside of him. Denial only went so far--- his wife was gone.  
Sobs wracked his body, and he wailed with the knowledge that he had been angry only minutes before the car had exploded, before her life had been taken, angry at her. Angry at her because she had wanted to help people. Wanted to help people fight against the very people that had killed her. Had taken her, taken their unborn child, away from him.  
He gasped to Jack the knowledge he had acquired that morning, about how he was supposed to be a father. Jack's eyes had squeezed shut then, and tears began to make their way down his face.  
In mourning for the two friends he had lost today, in morning for the only friend he had left, and his shattered life--- mourned for his own wife who had been lost, also with his child. The pain that radiated from the room spread out into the corridors of the hospital and the sobs could be heard in the nurse's station. The ones that heard him, heard the grieving widower, put their heads in their hands, trying to block out the sound of despair. In the Operating Room, the sound resounded. Bounced off the walls, hit the people who were inside with a sadness that they wished didn't exist. It didn't help that they had the widower's lifeless wife not too feet from them, staring blankly at ceiling above her. Lips blue, eyes glazed, skin pale and white, her ring glinting off the intense rays of the operating lights.  
With a sigh, the residing doctor covered her with a sheet so he didn't have to look at her pretty, bloody face any longer. He removed the gloves that were covered with her blood, threw them away.  
He walked down the hallway, went to room 345, looked in the widow and saw two men gripping each other for dear life, and closed his eyes. With his clothes still covered in her blood, he went to go talk to Tony Almeida about his surgery, his options… and the post-mortem arrangements for his wife.

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Done... Poor Tony. poor Michelle. Poor Palmer.. sighs

But hit me with feedback, I'd like to see what you think.

Wit


End file.
